


maybe i can love you with many selves

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [118]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mokuton, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 13:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15931091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Madara wasn’t on the battlefield,” Hashirama says.





	maybe i can love you with many selves

“Madara wasn’t on the battlefield,” Hashirama says.

Tobirama, in the middle of nursing a split lip and the particular pissy expression that Hashirama knows means Izuna tried something Tobirama didn’t think of, glances up and gives him a narrow look.

“No,” he agrees suspiciously. “He wasn’t. Anija?”

Hashirama isn't sure how to put his feeling into words, but it’s _there_ , rooted in his chest. Something unsettled, with sharp edges he can feel pulling beneath his skin. “Madara has never not met me in a fight before,” he says. “Maybe he didn’t realize I was there?”

Tobirama makes a disgruntled noise. “With the way you flare your chakra everywhere he can't help but know _exactly_ where you are,” he says tartly. “All of Fire Country knows where you are when we’re fighting the Uchiha, anija.”

Ducking his head a little sheepishly, Hashirama raises his hands, because of course Tobirama has noticed. Hashirama sometimes forgets he’s the most powerful sensor in Fire Country, and…well. Hashirama is hardly subtle. It’s simply that Madara always meets him, when their clans fight, in the same way Hashirama goes to meet Madara whenever he feels a battle start.

There's a quiet snort, and Tobirama steps away, heading for the window. He pauses there, face turned towards the river for a long moment, and then says slowly, “Perhaps he’s out on patrol somewhere. I can feel his chakra, but it’s…distant.”

The words are meant to comfort, to dismiss Hashirama’s worries, and Hashirama appreciates the effort. He smiles at his little brother, who glances at him, then flushes indignantly and jerks his gaze back out the window.

“Thank you, Tobirama,” he says gently, because he knows what Tobirama’s opinion on his feelings for Madara is. He’s heard it in great detail more times than he can count, but Tobirama is still willing to check on Madara's location for him. It’s so very like his prickly little brother. “I'm sure you're right.”

“Of course I am,” Tobirama huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Where else would that idiot Uchiha be? He’s too strong to have gotten himself into trouble.”

 _Into trouble_ , Hashirama thinks. Swallows as it settles in his chest, and thinks, _oh_. Because despite all reason, despite all logic, that feels…right. Accurate. Like Madara really is in trouble, and Hashirama just received the message telling him so.

It’s just a feeling. He smiles through it, curls a hand over Tobirama’s shoulder and squeezes gently in thanks, then turns to see to the last of the wounded from the fight. The medics likely have it well in hand, but Hashirama is the Senju Clan Head; every injury is his responsibility, and he has greater chakra reserves. He should help, regardless of what his father would have said about such an action.

And if it takes his mind off the curl of unease rising through his chest, that’s just a happy side effect.

 

 

The nighttime breeze is cool and strong, gusting through the Senju compound in whirling bursts that tangle Hashirama’s long hair around his shoulders as he walks the quiet paths between the houses. It’s after midnight, most of the clan asleep, and the only other souls Hashirama has seen are on patrol. He can't sleep, and it could be the full moon hanging heavy and bright over the forest, but Hashirama knows it’s the knot of worry still growing in his chest.

Madara didn’t meet him on the battlefield, and that’s never happened before.

Hashirama breathes in, tilts his face up to the dark sky. In the midnight silence, he feels like the only person left alive, the natural world stretching vast and ancient around him, and it’s a heady thing. Breathes out, opening his eyes, and—

The forest looms. Beyond it is the Nakano, and on the other side of the river are Uchiha lands. Easy to reach, and in the dark, under the full moon, Hashirama doesn’t need to be a sensor like Tobirama to be able to feel every inch of the land around them.

He turns his feet towards the main gate, unarmored but not unarmed. Keeps his steps steady, easy, because this isn't a night for rushing off unprepared. The worry won't be helped by speed, an Hashirama has learned over the years that the most devastating force is one that’s steady, relentless, doesn’t wear itself out in the first push. If Madara is in trouble, Hashirama needs to be careful, deliberate; Madara's death, especially if it were his fault, would destroy everything.

(He should mean in the frame of a future alliance with the Uchiha, in regard to possible peace talks. He doesn’t. Madara's death would gut him, leave him empty and aching with no chance of recovery, and Hashirama doesn’t even want to try to imagine a world where Madara doesn’t exist.)

Somehow, despite everything, it’s a surprise to find Tobirama leaning against the edge of the main gate in place of the normal guard, looking irritated but still unmoving. He meets Hashirama’s gaze as he approaches, then rolls his eyes with an expression of reluctant surrender, and says, “Madara's chakra is coming from the northernmost forest, near Hagoromo lands. There are other shinobi with him, but I can't tell how many, or what clan they're from. It’s on the very edge of my range.”

Hashirama smiles at his little brother, reaching out, and Tobirama sighs like it’s a trial but steps close, lets Hashirama pull him in to rest their foreheads together.

“Thank you,” Hashirama says softly.

“Don’t get your idiot self killed,” Tobirama tells him, but he puts a hand on Hashirama’s hair, lets his touch linger there for a long moment. Every goodbye could come without a return, in their world, and they’ve learned over the years to take advantage of each moment.

“Take care of the clan,” Hashirama says, though he hardly needs to. “Don’t pick too many fights with Izuna.” That part _always_ needs saying.

Tobirama scoffs. “Come back and stop me, then,” he retorts, and steps away. Pulls the sword he’s carrying from his obi, and offers it to Hashirama, though his expression says he already knows Hashirama’s response.

With a laugh, Hashirama reaches out, pushing the blade back towards him. “I won't need it,” he promises.

The slant of Tobirama’s mouth is disgruntled, but he slides the sword away again regardless. “Be careful, anija,” he says.

Hashirama looks up at the full moon sailing low over the treetops, the gentle sway of the forest in the wind. He smiles, small and quick, and promises, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, but he unbolts the gate, pulls it open to let Hashirama through. “Don’t keep it in mind, actually _do it_ ,” he warns, and Hashirama laughs even as he steps through the opening. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to; Tobirama is quick and clever and brilliant, and he has everything well in hand. Instead, he keeps his eyes forward, his steps steady as he reaches the edge of the trees. They shift above him, like welcoming arms, and Hashirama lifts a hand, grazes tree trunks as he passes, feels the spark that shivers to life beneath the bark as he does so.

Mokuton is a jutsu, like Suiton, like Fuuton, but it’s something else as well. Something vaster, wilder, more alive, with an edge of _awareness_ that always sleeps just beneath Hashirama’s skin. It loves the sunlight, the moonlight, the summer and spring, and right now it’s rising like sap on the first warm day of the year. Verdant, Hashirama thinks, and smiles. He pauses for a moment beneath a leaning persimmon tree, slides his sandals off and hooks them over a branch, and keeps walking with bare feet just to feel the hum of the earth beneath his soles. The ground is still sun-warm from the day, and there's a pull from the north, a touch of _look here_ that draws Hashirama like a flower turning towards the sun.

He doesn’t make for it immediately. While he might not put as much thought into some of his actions as Tobirama would prefer, Hashirama doesn’t consider himself a reckless man—he’s too much a shinobi for that. Every attack is planned, every situation assessed. He knows right down to the core of him that Madara needs help, but while the knowledge quickens his steps, it doesn’t drive him to wild impulse.

The Uchiha compound is surrounded by trees, held close in the grip of the dark, but it’s nowhere close to the sleepy peace of the Senju compound. Hashirama scales the tallest tree that abuts the walls, perfectly soundless, and crouches among the highest branches as lanterns move below, quick figures darting through the darkness. Izuna is the main one to catch his eye, worn ragged and sporting deep lines in his face, arm still splinted from Tobirama’s attack this morning. No chance to see a medic, Hashirama thinks, watching him rub a hand over his face. Or maybe simply no desire to with so much stress riding him; he looks like he hasn’t stopped moving in days.

Another familiar Uchiha approaches, dusty and tired, and Izuna turns to him, something desperate crossing his face. “Hikaku! Anything?”

Hikaku shakes his head, mouth twisting unhappily. “No sign of him,” he says. “Izuna, if something can keep _Madara_ contained…”

He trails off without finishing, and Hashirama closes his eyes for a moment, breathing out. Like he thought, then. Something’s happened.

“I know,” Izuna says wearily. “Tell the clan to keep to the compound unless absolutely necessary. We’ll just have to hope that the Senju don’t try anything for a few more days.”

“All right.” Hikaku bows, steps back, but Hashirama doesn’t wait to see him leave. He leaps down from the tree, landing lightly, and lets the whirl of a shunshin carry him deeper into the trees, north towards the distant edges of the forest.

This time Hashirama lets his feet pull him into a run, long strides covering humming earth, the world around him green and growing and holding its breath as he moves.

 

 

Hagoromo Clan lands are where Kawarama died, cut down by their shinobi in alliance with the Uchiha. Hashirama has always avoided the border here, because he remembers Kawarama’s body being carried back, remembers the Hagoromo nin that he and Madara found in the river the first time they met, back when things were simpler. He’s a shinobi, and he’s killed again and again, but he doesn’t like to dwell on death. Doesn’t like to linger on the past, even though his connection to Madara is based there.

The border touches the bend of the Nakano where it meets the foothills of a mountain range, then follows the edge of the mountains east and west. Madara's chakra is close here; Hashirama knows it as well as he does his own, with an instinctive recognition that rises from his bones. He wakes at night reaching for it, looks to it a hundred times during the day, and he’s no sensor but he imagines this is a little like being one, knowing exactly where Madara stands at every moment when he bothers to pay attention.

He hadn’t been, before, but he is now.

There's a Hagoromo crest carved into a tree at the river’s edge, and Hashirama passes it without pause, leaping across the water and then up the slope of the closest hill. The trees start again here, rising from the edges of the grassland that came before, and Hashirama reaches them in a moment, stretches out a hand. With a groaning shudder, they answer, twisting, rising, sending their roots reaching deep. A cavern starts beneath them, wide and low, and Hashirama falls to one knee at the start of it, presses his palms flat to the earth, and _breathes_.

Madara's chakra is beneath him, bound and muted and bright-sharp with fury-fear- _pain_ , and Hashirama closes his eyes against the seed of anger in his chest, curls his fingers into the dirt. Thrumming, _warm_ , like a living creature breathing under his hands, and Hashirama calls up a touch of chakra, lets it bleed into the air and earth and water. His chakra isn't like Tobirama’s, isn't even like Madara's; natural chakra, Tobirama has told him, like he was born a Sage without needing to hold a contract. Like his chakra coils are open, drinking in the world’s chakra the way a plant would the sunlight. Hashirama’s never quite been able to imagine being a self-contained thing, the way Tobirama describes everyone else. Can't fathom it, because he reaches out and the whole world answers, trees shivering, grass rippling, earth trembling. Beautiful chaos, carefully ordered, and Hashirama has never known anything else.

He touches that power, gathers it between his hands and his heart, and rises, ripping the roof right off the cavern.

There are shouts, cries of shock and fear, but Hashirama takes a step and drops, landing in a crouch at the edge of the cave. Twelve men, he thinks, hardly needing to spare them a glance. That’s fine; his gaze immediately goes to Madara, wide-eyed and pale, where he’s been trapped in a corner that’s ringed with seals. His eyes are dark, no sign of the Sharingan, and his hands are shackled behind him, bound to his feet. The marks of a fight are clear on him, but thankfully Hashirama can't see anything serious—just a handful of bruises he can heal with a moment’s work.

“Madara,” he says, makes it light, almost joking, as if the relief in his chest isn't a burning flame. “There you are. I wondered why you gave Tobirama the satisfaction of a battlefield without your presence.”

Madara bristles, shouts, but it comes out garbled into unintelligibility by the thick gag. He wrenches forward, and that expression is alarm, but—

He should know better by now, Hashirama thinks with amusement, and sets one palm flat against the worn stone.

The kunoichi swinging a blade at his head goes down with a cry, dragged back and under a writhing mass of green that bursts up from the rock, cracking right through it and rising towards the moon. The other Hagoromo shinobi turn with shouts of alarm, but Hashirama pushes up, curls his fingers, _reaches_.

The world breathes with him, and he opens his eyes with green bright and verdant in his veins, a heartbeat as vast as a mountain in his chest.

The forest surges up through his body, spills from his fingertips, and drowns the world in a sea of green.

 

 

There's no trace of encroaching flora on Madara's corner, even though roots have cracked the seals and broken the ring. Hashirama slips through the press of trees and vines as they part around him, steps into the bare patch of stone and goes to one knee, reaching out.

It means everything in the world that Madara doesn’t even consider flinching away from his hands.

“You _idiot_ ,” Madara snarls the moment the gag comes free, expression wild, hair a chaotic tangle around his face. The shackles crack, shimmer with a heat haze, and melt off his skin, and he reaches for Hashirama without hesitation. “You don’t even have a damned kunai on you, or your armor, or your _shoes_ —”

Hashirama laughs, and when those callused fingers find his face, he leans into them. Tips his head, lets Madara grip his hair and haul him closer, and says, “You're _my_ rival. No one else is allowed to keep you from our fights.”

A sound of reluctant amusement jars from Madara's chest, and he drags Hashirama in, gets a hand on his cheek and knots his fingers in his hair. “You idiot,” he says again, but his eyes spin to red and black, follow the lines of Hashirama’s face as he traces them with his fingertips. Breathes out, shaky and swift, and laughs a little, rough and almost angry.

“They didn’t want me to break our alliance,” he says, and doesn’t even try to look for the Hagoromo shinobi. Better that way; they're all dead regardless. “But they wouldn’t stop hunting children, either.”

Of course that would lead to a situation. Hashirama smiles, because for all the battles between them Madara still has the same burning-bright heart he did on the riverbank all those years ago.

“Then I'm glad I could help wrap up the negotiations,” he says, and Madara laughs again, strokes his fingers through Hashirama’s hair.

“You're a fool,” he says, and swallows. Lets his thumb trace over Hashirama’s lips, and those red-and-black eyes slide up to Hashirama’s. Hashirama doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to look away; he meets them squarely, holds Madara's gaze.

“I'm glad you're all right,” he says softly, and Madara curses, loud and sharp, and drags him in. Kisses him, desperate and messy and deep, and Hashirama moans, catches Madara's face in his hands to kiss him back. It’s warmth and relief and _finally, finally_ like a surge of elation in his chest, roots tangled in the depths of his heart. Madara's mouth is a firebrand, hot like it’s going to leave a mark Hashirama will never escape, and he wants it, wants that sign to carry with him forever.

“Madara,” he breathes, half an instant of separation before Madara shoves him back, presses him up against a tree and slides between his thighs, kisses him again even harder than before. With a gasp Hashirama takes it, pulls Madara closer, wraps his legs around his waist and feels Madara's hitching breath against his lips.

“You came to find me,” Madara says, somewhere between disbelief and gratitude. “You _idiot_ , Hashirama.”

“I thought you might be in danger,” Hashirama defends, though he’s far more interested in the way one of Madara's hands curls around his hip, slides back to grip his ass. He shifts up, but Madara shoves him back again, pushes in until Hashirama is sitting on his knees and kisses him again, just daring him to get up and leave.

“The only danger I've ever been in is from _you_ ,” Madara says, and it’s meant to be a joke, an accusation, but—

He didn’t flinch when Hashirama reached for him. He’s never hesitated to treat Hashirama like any other shinobi, and not the strange, fey thing everyone else sees him as.

“Only to your heart,” Hashirama jokes, but Madara laughs, low and raw, and drops his head against the curve of Hashirama’s throat, long hair hiding his face.

“Idiot,” he says hoarsely. “Of course. What did you think I meant?”

Hashirama swallows, pulls him just one inch closer. Wraps him up in his arms, and breathes.

The world breathes with them, and Hashirama thinks he can feel the future shift and realign.

“What do you think Tobirama and Izuna would say about being brothers-in-law?” he asks, and Madara's snicker is full of an older sibling’s absolute glee at the prospect of brotherly suffering.

“I think we should find out,” he answers, and leans up, kissing Hashirama again.


End file.
